A Morning in Paris
by maiarose
Summary: Illya had no taste for lounging in bed—it's unproductive, wasteful of the day. But perhaps a certain little chop shop girl can change his mind, even if it means getting caught. Gallya fluff. Oneshot.


First upload on FanFiction! I'm just so completely in love with this pairing, there's just something about Gaby and Illya that is.. electric. Anyway, I was rather worried initially that this would be sort of soft on Illya's part- he's usually much more stiff and grim, but I just wanted to have a slightly lighter/playful take on things. It's definitely harder writing more from his perspective and thoughts, which is something we're not really privy to all the time, and I think that's really what makes him sound softer in this piece. Now enough of my ramblings. Enjoy!

maiarose

* * *

He was always the first of the three to wake up, and today was no different. Though Illya would not sleep with the window open, wary of his vulnerability in the event of an intruder's arrival, he could not ward off the beginnings of daylight that crept into his luxury Parisian hotel.

It was barely five thirty, but the Russian agent had no taste for lounging in bed—it was unproductive, wasteful of the day.

It was their second day in the city, and the trio was meant to prevent the black market sale of British nuclear launch codes by corrupt French government officials at a charity gala that evening. To his discreet and self-kept disappointment, Illya would be bodyguard to Mr. and Mrs. Napoleon Solo.

Illya stepped out onto the balcony to take in some fresh air, clad in nothing but his standard pajama pants. Not bothering to stifle his yawn, he lazily stretched his arms above his head.

"Putting on quite a show for the mademoiselles are we?" he heard, turning to face an amused Gaby, who was leaning against her own balcony railing, her hazel tresses cascading around her lightly tanned face.

A corner of Illya's mouth turned up. "I did not know chop shop girls had taste for silk," he teased back.

"These were Solo's idea. If I'm going to be the wife to a millionaire I must dress the part, even behind closed doors," Gaby shrugged, undeterred.

"I preferred you in your pyjamas," he replied, referring to their first mission together. "More freedom to move."

Gaby's brows furrowed. "You don't think this is adequate?" she asked, referring to her silk slip.

Illya swallowed quietly, his eyes tracing the curves of her body from her well-defined collarbone, down her smooth arms, and to the delightful mounds that rested on her chest. He quickly looked away, heat collecting at his cheeks. _Chyort!_ He mentally slapped himself. He thought himself a more honourable man than this, and did not wish to savour her like a pig with his eyes.

"It is not practical," he managed to muster stiffly. "And why are you awake at this hour? Mission does not start until afternoon. Little girls need sleep to grow," he taunted lightly, eager to change the subject.

The German beauty rolled her eyes. "I couldn't sleep. Solo won't stop trying to spoon me in his sleep, he's too used to another woman in the bed," she added.

Without realising, Illya balled one hand into a fist. "Perhaps it is better if you sleep here," he said in a rush, unable to control himself.

"There?" Gaby asked, surprised, raising a brow. She looked at him for one second, turned, and in the blink of an eye, Illya found himself alone outside.

Illya groaned. What did he do? Not only did he offer his bed to her so desperately, she rejected him without a word. Now their mission in Paris would be even more unbearable. He would have to watch her and Napoleon act as lovers as he looked from afar, unable to do anything, knowing that she was just in the next room in the American's bed. His cheeks were singed with embarrassment. He would never be able to forget this—

Three sudden sharp raps to the door, and Illya was immediately on guard. His heart began to beat faster. Who could be knocking at this hour? Was his position compromised?

He silently made his way to the door, hesitating. He made no motion to answer, even after another three loud knocks.

"Are you going to let me in or not?" an unmistakable, impatient voice, muffled, could be heard through the door.

He quickly opened the door to find Gaby, still in her barely-there slip.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked, truly concerned.

"You extended an invitation, remember? I'm merely taking you up on your offer," she replied.

Startled at her acceptance, Illya let out a short "Oh."

"Well… are you going to let me in or shall I stand here for the housekeeping to gawk at?" Gaby asked playfully.

"Yes, yes. Come in," Illya beckoned, silently cursing himself for being in such disarray.

Gaby walked through the spacious room, and made her way towards the bed as the Russian followed, slightly disoriented in her half-naked presence.

She eagerly climbed into the welcoming king sized bed, still warm from Illya's body heat. He quietly observed her from the foot of the bed, amused at seeing her frail figure rendering her lost among the pillows and bedding.

She stared up at him with her warm, innocent eyes. "Join me," she requested simply.

He hesitated and then decided against his instincts, walking over to the vacant side and sliding in slowly. He made to mirror her position, so that they were both lying on their sides, facing each other.

Silence took over as their eyes simply observed one another, not a word being said. Illya made sure to note down all he could about her features—her endless lashes, soft yet structured cheekbones, and full lips, stained a shade of pink he had not noticed anywhere else. And in her eyes—a fire he could not deny. The little chop shop girl feigned innocence, but her eyes gave her away without a doubt. She was truly something.

"That scar. I've never noticed it before. What is it?" she asked, reaching out to run her forefinger along a small line of raised skin that had long since healed over.

He froze at her touch, his skin on fire where her fingers once were.

"In my village when I was young, I saw three children in the market. They stole bread from an old man. Not much, just a small loaf. Not even enough for one."

His absentmindedly began to trace circles on the back of her hand as he recounted his story.

"The man caught them. Was about to beat them. The oldest looked about eight years." He became lost in thought. The memory still enraged him. "I tried to stop it, but I was weak. I did nothing to help. Just became another kid for him to beat," he finished, his mouth in a tight line.

Gaby stared at him, silent. "You did everything you could," she said quietly. "You were just a kid."

"It doesn't matter. It will never happen again," he declared firmly. He promised himself a long time ago that he would never be the weaker man.

"I know," she replied. "You protect us with everything you have."

"Like tonight," Illya replied bitterly.

"Why do you say it like that?" Gaby asked, confused.

Illya realized that he had given himself away. He pulled his hand back, turning so that he was now facing the ceiling, Gaby out of his view. However, he felt her inching closer to him.

"Tell me," she said, gentle and pleading.

"I am your bodyguard. He is your husband. Nothing to tell," he said firmly.

"You're jealous," she realized.

Illya scoffed, furrowing his brow at her, too prideful to admit it. "There is nothing to be jealous of," he said, more to himself than her.

"You're jealous," she said again, louder this time, a giggle following.

"No," he replied bluntly, becoming more angered.

"You're jeal—"

And in a minute he was on top of her, supporting his own weight so as not to crush the girl, but his body was pressed against hers, and the fabric of their nightwear did little to separate their bodies. Faces dangerously close; he could feel her warm breath on his lips.

"No."

She looked up at him, her heart racing and breathing slightly quick. Their eyes were locked, her fiery brown warring against his piercing blue.

"You don't fancy me then?" she asked to confirm.

Taken aback by her bluntness, he said nothing, but shook his head.

"That's odd," Gaby said, a smile playing on her lips. "Your body suggests otherwise," she smirked, her eyes darting downwards.

Illya felt his cheeks burn, cursing his body for betraying him. He made to roll off her, but she stopped him, wrapping her legs loosely around his lower torso and snaking her arms around his neck.

"Gaby—"

"Don't think about it," she whispered, pulling him closer.

He obliged, his eyes from hers to her lips, and his lips slowly started to brush against hers—smooth, warm, inviting, her scent intoxicating—

The phone suddenly rang, startling them both.

The pair seemed to mutter a string of curses under their breath in their own respective tongues, as Illya rolled off her to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"As much as I hope you're enjoying yourselves, Peril, now isn't the time," Napoleon said. "Your window is open and there are two men sitting by the fountain who I remember to be part of the Minister of Defense's security detail. They will definitely be wondering why, and reporting back, might I add, that my lovely wife is in bed, in the throes of it with my bodyguard," he finished dramatically.

"And you are where?"

"Sitting in the park bench behind them of course," he answered smugly. "Don't close the curtains, it'll look obvious."

Illya scowled, slamming the phone on its receiver, and climbed back into bed, his back against the headboard, a string of Russian curses escaping his lips.

"Security detail is spying on us. Two men," he explained to Gaby shortly.

"And Solo?" she asked.

"Also spying on us," he rolled his eyes.

Gaby inched closer to him slowly. "And… they've caught us in bed," she said.

"Yes," he said. "We have blown our cover. Idiots!" he said, running a hand through his hair.

"So… there's nothing we can do to cover this up," she said, climbing onto his lap.

"Yes," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose once again.

"Well then… fuck it," she gasped, tilting his chin up roughly for a desperate and long overdue kiss, and this time no interruption could make them pull away.

Her breath hitched as he cupped her ass, ravaging her lips and nipping at her neck, and she buried her hands in his now disheveled blonde hair. The pair became lost and entangled in each other and the sheets; the usual daily verbal battles turned into a wholly physical one.

Three hours later, the pair was contently and lazily moulded together, Gaby's head nestled in the crook of Illya's neck, arm around his waist, as he held her with a strong arm, hand weaving in and out of her loose locks.

"…Illya?"

"Yes?"

"Usually you're just as observant as Napoleon, if not more. You didn't notice the men this morning?"

"… No."

"Illya…"

"Maybe."

"Illya!"

And he shut her up with another kiss, and that was the end of that, and Illya then decided that lounging in bed was not entirely wasteful if company was involved. Namely, a certain little chop shop girl.

* * *

And there you have it! Illya's a tad cheeky here and I know he wouldn't blatantly compromise the mission like that, but my thinking is that he knew there could be a way to explain things— perhaps that Mrs. Solo was having an affair with the bodyguard, and Mr. Solo was blind to this fact. In any instance, I hope you enjoyed the fic and enjoy Gallya as much as I do. Please do leave a review with your thoughts, I'd love to know! Thanks for the read!

maiarose


End file.
